She's Not Irene - SherlockxOC
by ALostWinchester
Summary: Moriarty is still a Mystery with a capital 'M', but Holmes isn't a mystery to him. One message from one person brings back powerful memories of a past that still influence his life now. That same person can bring him closer to the secret of Moriarty's identity. All he has to do is think.
1. Chapter 1

"Who are you?" he asked, his tone even but his actions clearly withholding aggression.

"I was hoping you'd say, 'can I help you?'" I replied at his door. He'd pulled it open frighteningly fast only moments ago and I was getting the impression he was an impatient kind of guy.

"I'm a tad busy at the moment, so please, lets get to the point quickly."

"Then what does who I am have to do with anything?"

"Nothing!" he barked, beginning to bounce on the balls of his feet. "Absolutely nothing. Can I help you?"

"Guy sent me a message, asked me to deliver something."

He stopped bouncing. At last he stopped looking behind me, around me, back inside his hallway. Our eyes met – really met – and I held his gaze firmly.

"Care to be more specific?"

"Not really."

He huffed, "Well go on then, what's the message?"

"How is Irene? Is she as she was in your mind or has that memory bank brain of yours warped the true wretch she was?"

He grew very still and I didn't want to linger. "Well, that's all for me so I'm going to just..." I trailed off as I walked down his steps, onto the street. I ducked my head as I pulled out my phone to select a song for the walk to the train station. My head kept on going, dragging me down, making my knees bend and my arms tuck in. There was a hand on my neck, folding me into myself, to the ground. Gunshots. There were five gunshots. I know because for a few minutes after I kept reliving it –

Bending down to my phone, continuing to the ground, behind a parked car, hand on my neck and bang bang bang bang bang.

Over and over, I relived it until time sped up. The guy from the door's face was before mine.

"Come on." He demanded quickly, comfortingly even. His hands on my shoulders, no hand on the back of my neck now, pulled me towards the next parked car. Now he was talking to me.

"Who are you?" he demanded. His eyes wide, as if searching for the answer on my face.

"Emy." I replied.

"Emy what?"

"Emy Tanzanite."

He peeked over the roof of the car we were crouched by.

"Get inside." He ordered. I new better than to object just by the sound of his voice.

The street was quiet now, the commotion over. I walked calmly into his house. I say house because it looked nothing like a home. No wallpaper or paint. No carpet. Books and a rack of keys. It was bizarre. I suddenly wished I hadn't accepted being a messenger. He followed me. Closed the door and then took my arm. He pulled a rug aside and opened a hatch.

"Fuck off." I said.

"Hide." He insisted. Now. I'll get you when it's safe."

"Right." I sighed sarcastically. This is how I would die. Great...

"Would you like me to drug you into going there? Because I can."

Based on the house, I believed it, so I hopped in. It wasn't uncomfortable. I could stretch out my legs. The door closed, darkness filled my vision. There was a latch moved and a rug replaced. I gently pushed up. He'd locked me in.

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

I heard sirens and footsteps. Shuffling and the making of a hot drink. Kettle filled, boiling, mugs being set down, jars opening and shutting, cupboards closing, a teaspoon clanking on ceramic. I felt thirsty. I also needed to _go._ I sat tight and tried to be patient. And silent.

It could only have been twenty minutes, but while trapped in a box your perception of time warps. I heard the footsteps and perked up. I heard the rug being kicked aside and moved into a crouch ready to stand. Light streamed in, hurting my eyes. I squinted up at two faces.

"She was here the whole time!" a woman exclaimed, black hair, skinny and asian. She was not happy. "Why are you withholding her from the police?"

"Because our friend Moriarty got in touch with her to get in touch with me."

"That doesn't mean you can obstruct justice in the pursuit of a vendetta –"

As she lectured him about the law and rules not mean to be broken, I climbed out of the whole in the floor, and dusted myself off. I took the liberty of having a look around; the titles of the books were all over the place – from fiction to fact to speculation – and the ornaments were very curious indeed. Then I spied it; a camera.

This is exactly the kind of thing TV warns us about. Don't talk to strangers; don't walk up to strangers houses; don't walk in to strangers houses; and don't go inside their trap doors. Especially when they live in squalor with cameras on the inside of the house.

Yet there I was. I guess that's what I get...

They finished fighting and "Watson", as I noted her name or title or whatever, announced she was going out for an hour. She turned on her heel and left. He didn't try to stop her so I took that as good sign. He turned to me.

"Cup of tea?"

"Moriarty guy killed someone close to you huh?" I started, never one to hang around for small talk.

"Good. You were listening, that means I don't have to repeat myself. What else?"

"What else, what?"

"What else did you eavesdrop in on there?"

"It was hardly eary-wigging."

"None the less, can you tell me what else you heard?"

"Moriarty eludes you. Has done for some time. You would like to murder him. And you work with the police, if you are not already a police officer."

"I am a consultant."

I had no response. I let the silence ring.

"Well, what do you do?" He pushed. I walked past him; I'd spied the kettle. As I walked I answered,

"I'm a writer."

"Published?"

"Yes."

"I've never heard of Emy Tanzanite."

"It's a sort of nick-name." I said, pouring my own tea. "How do you take your tea?"

"No thank you. A sort of nickname?"

"That's what I said."

He sighed and moved to what looked like his living room. No television though.

"So what do you write?" he called.

"Fiction."

"I should imagine this will be an inspiring experience for you then."

"Oh?" I prompted, taking my tea to the 'living room' but remaining at the wall, leaning against it, facing him.

"I can't allow you to leave."

"You really can't stop me."

He threw me a look that said more than any string of words could. He could stop me, alright.

"I'm not keeping you here for my benefit, well that's not entirely true; it's in my interest to keep you alive."

"Melodrama is not lost on you." I muttered before sipping my tea.

"No... It isn't, do you care to watch some television while I contemplate a few things?" He threw himself out of the chair, and I decided it would be easier to confirm by following him.

"What about clothes and my family? I'd like to get a message to them if you don't mind." I called as he sped away.

"I'll think of something safe." He said, opening two doors to about a dozen televisions. He indicated a dining char and a pile of controls on the floor.

"I'm sure you can work out how to use these."

He had closed the door behind him before I really got to register what was happening.


	3. Chapter 3

I held onto his neck, his forehead leaned on mine, sweat poured from us both, I pushed my legs as wide apart as I could get them and with one final thrust, he finished just as I began to wind down from my own climax.

We remained still for a while, panting, pulsing, recovering. I can't say it was an unpleasant surprise being one, offered sex, and two the way it was offered. His investigative partner, as it turned out, Watson, was still pissed off at him and opted to stay elsewhere for the night. I had spent the day listing numbers and addresses of people I wanted to know I was in danger, but being kept as safe as possible, and listing clothes I found on websites of retailers for someone else to collect for me. I couldn't use my bank so Sherlock – as it turned out his name was – marked a few number on a bit of paper. He called it my list of debt. I make good money, I didn't mind the list.

He had walked in and offered me a t-shirt and shorts to wear should Watson return and be offended if I needed to move around the halls through the night. His thoughtfulness for her was sweet. I sort of assumed they had a thing; they live together and they way they fought, so when he asked,

"What are your thoughts on promiscuous sex?"

"Are you asking?" I said, trying to remain passive, but I really wanted to giggle wildly because I'm still somewhat immature when it comes to sex – any innuendo can make me grin before I know I'm doing it. However, the act itself was no issue at all, so I met his gaze and I didn't need to say more.

"Interesting." He said before leaving. "Well goodnight." He called.

Once, I would have been disappointed and hurt by that. Now, I knew he wanted me to make the first move. Sure, it's not always the case, but I have good instincts and they were screaming.

So when the last light before the bedrooms was killed, and he moved to his room, I walked down the hall, wearing only his t-shirt to stave off the cold, and leaned on his doorframe. He grew suddenly humble, and smiled wickedly. What can I say; I know what I'm doing. So did he. I waited patiently as he pulled off his shirt, threw it into a corner and made his way towards me. I didn't move except for keeping my eyes on him. His hand slid over my hip, and I waited. The other hand slid over my other hip. It felt like teasing. A shiver threatened at the base of my skull. His tattoos were my first port of call. I traced them with my fingers briefly as he leaned closer, beginning to tower over me. I looked up to him and closed my eyes as we kissed, tentatively at first until my hands made their way over his belt buckle, gently taking it away from him. As I did so, he began to make breathless sounds of impatience, and I smiled into his kissing, slowing down.

He pushed his body against me, pinning me flat to the door frame and I let out a noise of approval. As he began to shimmy out of his trousers, I lifted my leg to give my foot a better angle to help pull him out of them. He leaned into me, pressing his approval between my legs. When he was freed, he slid me up the wall for a better angle to kiss and nip my neck, holding me up with his hand against the door frame, between my legs. No one had done such a thing to me before and I instantly pulled the t-shirt off my back. Naked but for my girl-boxers he trailed kisses and nibbles down, until he kneeled, kissing my stomach.

As he pulled away the last of my clothes, I stepped out of them and round him to his bed. That's when the fun really started. So there we sat, after the true definition of rampant sex, and panted. After a while he lay back and I took the opportunity to climb away, still trembling as I made my way to the toilet to freshen up. Cold water made me shake harder as it struck my face, and I leaned on the edge of the sink for well over a minute. Casual sex has this habit of reaching out to the small part of me that fears Catholic School still, and I had to calm myself; my beliefs had since changed. And then something happened that hasn't happened to me before.

I vomited. The trembling continued as empty bile threw itself out of me. Movement suddenly caught my attention and I listened until he chapped the door.

I got up, washed out my mouth and stood behind the door as I opened it, concealing my naked self. He handed me a glass of water and t-shirt.

"Shock." He explained as I took it. "After the gunfire. It took you long enough, but we're all different, I suppose."

He was less relaxed now. I nodded and closed the door to apply the shirt and opened it again to find him leaning on the wall, waiting for me this time.

"I'm alright, honestly." I explained, feeling far from it.

"Good, you're a terrible liar. I wanted to ask you some questions, but perhaps it should wait until morning."

"Yeah." I replied.

"Well goodnight." He said, pursing his lips together in an altogether awkward, yet polite smile.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the next morning, and I woke to the sounds of movement and voices downstairs. I crept into my clothes from the day before and continued my ninja impression to the stairs. Now I was eavesdropping.

"Moriarty sent her here."

"Then why is she staying here? How do you know she isn't working with him?"

"I ruled that out last night."

"So why was she sent here?"

"To lead me on a wild goose chase. He had her deliver a message, that would spark my interest and it did but it occurred to me that he was trying to blindside me in someway."

"To do what?"

"I don't know yet."

"So she can go home now?"

"No. Someone is watching her house, monitoring her calls. I checked already and it's safe to say he will kill her the minute he gets a chance."

"Why?"

An uncomfortable silence fell. I wanted to know why too, so like Watson, I waited.

"She looks like Irene."

Silence continued and I understood he was uncomfortable talking about this.

"There's actually very little differentiation from the two. He wants me out in the open and thinking irrationally. If that is his game then I can't allow that to happen."

"So what can you do."

"Try and work out some details about who his profile from that alone. I have nothing on him. Nothing." He spat the words out. I walked by, to the kitchen as though I hadn't heard a thing.

"So we're kidnapping someone for the sake of theories and ghosts?" she said quietly, as if I couldn't hear. I never heard what he said next. As she has spoke, I'd popped the switch on the kettle. Now it was boiling. Whatever he said next, she stood up and left.

"Can I get you a cup of tea?" I called out. He said please and explained how he liked it. After I passed him his mug, I sat on the couch. A strange silence fell around us, and I became used to it quickly; even comfortable in it.

"So how did you receive the message for me?" he said. It sounded too loud; obtrusive in the room I was so used to being quiet already.

"My agent."

"For writing." He suggested.

"That's right."

"Go on." He encouraged me, and I felt slightly ambushed.

"She passed me an envelope detailing another book deal. I was harassed and took it home to read. There was a nice deal in there alright, but there was another letter too. It gave me your address and the message I had to give you. Without it, I got no book deal and I can't say there's a hell of a lot else going for me right now."

"Has anything like that happened to you before?"

"Never."

"If I give your description to the police and check your personal file, will that be true?"

I had to smile, "You don't trust people do you?"

"Not after they have proven their trust to me."

I leaned forward, "And sex doesn't count?"

His cheeks flushed but I didn't think he was embarrassed as much as he was tempted.

"I thought," he began carefully, "You were sleeping with me to trick me."

"After you extended the invite?"

"After you accepted it. There isn't much to be said for your morals."

Anger flared hot in my chest.

"Nor for your character; under the circumstances I'd say the evidence suggests you're a relatively dodgy character."

"So why sleep with me?"

"Why bore myself while I'm in captivity? I could walk out, you know."

"But you wont."

"No?"

"You were listening. You know they'll kill you."

"Because I look like the mysterious Irene."

He marched past me. Wasn't I supposed to be the one outraged?


	5. Chapter 5

"Jesus!" I gasped as he hovered at the door.

"I'm sorry," he said sheepishly, "I was just going to knock."

"It's fine." I sighed, relaxing my reflexes. I had been trying on the clothes I now owed him money for. There weren't many and I was glad neither of us anticipated a long stay. I turned and moved to the bed to have a seat; I may have relaxed but I hadn't calmed down.

"May I come in?" he asked and I nodded my approval. He sat next to me, his back to me. "I must apologise. I realise Watson would probably tell me to do so."

I didn't know how to respond, and before I could think of what to say he continued,

"I am a recovering drug addict because I lost control of my habit after the death of someone very close to me." As he said Irene, I found myself silently repeating her name with him. He took a minute after he said it before carrying on, "You look just like her and I may have behaved inappropriately by fornicating with you and then questioning your morals."

"What happened to her," silence stretched long enough for me to know he wouldn't reply, "if you don't mind me asking?"

"She was, murdered."

"I'm sorry."

"It's partially my fault. I was pursuing her killer and he didn't like it. If he wanted me to suffer he succeeded, but..."

I felt a shift in the bed as he looked towards me. I kept my eyes on my hands; this was a lot to take in on top of everything else.

"You look just like her, and I can't handle seeing her dead again."

I could feel it happening. I didn't want it to, but there was no stopping it; I cried. I don't know why I find it so embarrassing; I'm not a particularly harsh crier, there are more tears than sobs – in fact I rarely ever make a sound when I cry and I wasn't going to wail or anything but... It was so hard to hear.

"Please don't cry." He said, turning to me, "I didn't mean to-"

I cut him off by raising my hand as a defeated smile pulled at my face. "Relax, I'm not having a break down. It's just hard to hear, your story."

He regarded me a second and leaned in, his hand hovering near my jaw line. Then he tried to right himself,

"I'm sorry-"

But I cut him off, held onto his hand and pressed my lips against his. His tension disappeared and he pulled me onto him. I wrapped myself around him and our kissing left us breathless. He pulled away and kept his eyes down, his forehead against mine and asked,

"Are you doing this because you want to or because you sympathise –"

"I'm doing this because you were going to kiss me and you're rather good at it. Sex is a primal thing; there doesn't need to be an analysis into that. If having sex is what you want right now I'm happy to oblige while I wait for the end of my imprisonment here."

He smiled, "Remarkable." And threw me to the bed behind us.

What?


End file.
